Finch and Mince

I do believe Santa has brought me an eye infection for Christmas. Hey-ho for the salt-water eye baths.
Grrr
On a happier note, I had a wonderful realisation this morning as I went to the Post Office Special Deliveries place unfeasibly early to pick up a parcel.
I really wanted to photograph the lady there, who has pinned felt santa badges and tinsel and holly decals all over her navy blue uniform jacket, but I was far to sleepy.
What I realised is that when my hair grows grey, I can fulfil my dream of looking like a zebra finch. I had one when I was 23, which I gave to Paul McGann and his girlfriend (I know I wrote about it ages ago, Mrs Finch kept having babies and eating them).
My finch, Peter Finch, had a squeaky, cackly chirrup that sounded like Bo Diddley or something- 'Diddly-daddly, diddly daddly'.
It was grey, with brown wings with white spots, a black and white striped tail and a red beak.
Stylish.
I always wanted to go the whole way, and dye my hair grey, brown with white spots at the sides and black and white stripes at the back, with a red fringe to set it off.
Soon there will be no need to dye my hair grey!
I can do it!
Yippee!

By the way, the best mince pies come from the Co-Op.
Take one letter away, and it's mice pies.
Yum.